


Faithful Companions and Tellers of Tales

by TheWhiteLily



Series: Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2016 [6]
Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 13:04:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7509367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWhiteLily/pseuds/TheWhiteLily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bored Sherlock looking for something to pass the time until his next case discovers someone intriguing in John's history...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faithful Companions and Tellers of Tales

**Author's Note:**

> For the Watson's Woes July 16th Challenge: "I Feel A Bit Prouder Knowing Sherlock Holmes Is British" (Include another character from a great British work)

John had been living at Baker Street for almost two months when it happened.

He’d got used to the ebb and flow of cases by now.  The way Sherlock buzzed with excitement and dragged John along with him in a whirlwind of excitement when there was Work to do.  The way when there wasn’t, he climbed the walls—or shot them—searching out any kind of stimulation for a few days, as long as he could manage, before he collapsed on the couch in a deep depression that nothing short of a murder could lift. 

Right now, he was, perhaps, two hours away from a full-on descent into an uncommunicative despair that wouldn’t go away until the next time the police brought a case to him.  He’d disappeared up into John’s room half an hour ago, and John had ignored the sounds of things being moved, his possessions being hunted through and searched for clues.

If going through John’s things and deducing what he could was stopping Sherlock’s mind from turning in on itself, putting off the moment of his impending surrender to boredom, then John was all for it.

A sudden cry from upstairs made John look up from his book, as though there was any way he could see through the floorboards above, wondering he should go up to investigate.  But it was quickly followed by the sound of heavy feet rushing down the stairs—and when Sherlock entered the room, he was clutching a photograph, as white as though he’d seen a ghost. 

“The shape of the ears, John,” he said shakily.  “The line of the chin…”

He gave the photograph to John carefully, handling it over with the air of a holy relic.

“You’ve been looking through my things again,” said John, accepting the photo and glancing at it without comment.  “ _My_ things, Sherlock.  I don’t have much, but I do have a right to privacy.”

“Oh, you knew perfectly well where I was,” snapped Sherlock.  “If you wanted me to leave it, you’d have warned me off earlier.  Not that that would have made a difference.  The _photograph_ , John.”

“It’s my great-grandfather,” said John, curiously, looking back down at the picture of himself, twelve years old, standing proudly with his arm around an elderly wheelchair-bound Army Captain in full dress uniform.

It had been taken at the Remembrance Day march.  Great-Grandad’s arthritis had been too bad to manage the march on his own two feet, and so John had volunteered to push him—had pushed him all the way despite the ache in his arms and the lead in his legs, with his heart full of pride and joy and _belonging_ among the columns of grizzled veterans and young servicemen marching around him.

Great-Grandad had died before the following year’s march, but until he'd left for war himself, John had never once missed taking his OBE for the walk in his stead.

“I can see _that_ ,” snapped Sherlock.  “Why on earth didn’t you _tell_ me?”

“He died a long time ago, Sherlock, I don’t know what you wanted me to—” said John and then broke off as a thought came to him.  “Oh!  Do you mean…”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.  “I’ve studied every report I could lay my hands on of every crime in the last few centuries,” he said.  “He was caught in the edges of the frame in the newspaper semi-regularly.  Of course I recognised him immediately.”

“I hadn’t thought about that in years.”  John grinned.  “That _is_ funny, isn’t it?  I always wanted to be a doctor—but I also wanted to be _just_ like him.  He’s the one who suggested I didn’t have to choose, because the Army was the place a doctor was most needed.  He did tell the best stories about it—the friends he made, the things he learned about himself.  And about his time in Argentina on the ranch, before my great-grandmother was killed.  He was a wonderful story-teller.  And my favourite stories,” he said, enjoying the look of anticipation on Sherlock’s face, “my _very_ favourite stories, were the ones about a private detective friend of his…”

Sherlock’s posture relaxed a little, his theory obviously confirmed.

“Great-Grandad used to help him, when  _he_ used to help the police solve crimes.  Apparently, he quite enjoyed bringing along a friend to propose idiotic theories and marvel at his cleverness.  Brilliant man.  If a little… peculiar, in his habits.”

Sherlock scowled at him. 

John sighed happily, and leaned back in his chair.  “Great-Grandad Hastings,” he mused.  “Well.  I guess I really have arrived, haven’t I?”

He sat, for a few minutes, thinking about the liver-spotted man who’d always settled in a chair by the fire to tell thrilling stories of blood and battles, honour and duty, that had kept John and Harry both entertained despite their mother’s disapproval when they dipped occasionally into comrades lost and the grim realities of the trenches.  And the stories that had kept John riveted long after Harry had wandered off to climb a tree and get into trouble somewhere, stories of a brilliant mind that saw beneath the obvious and solved puzzles that no-one else could. 

“Would you like…” he started, and then trailed off. 

Sherlock had been so scathing about the idea of him attempting to write up their cases on the blog, but…  John remembered the warmth of Great-Grandad telling his stories, the thrill of trying to pick up the clues, the confusion of following along playing catch-up to things Poirot had seen in a mere glance, the joyous memories that had lit in Great-Grandad’s eyes at the memory of his incredible, extraordinary friend. 

It had been a happy time.  It had always been a happy time, when he’d come to visit. 

John _was_ going to write up that blog post, whatever Sherlock said about it.  And maybe one day, John would be enthralling _his_ great-grandchildren, with the tales of _his_ detective.

For the moment, though...

“Would you like me try to tell you some of his stories?” asked John.  “Some of the ones he was there for?”

Sherlock’s eyes glowed.


End file.
